


Father, King

by Nerdanelparmandil



Series: Fëanorian Week - March 2019 [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Fëanorian Week 2019, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-18 03:20:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18112205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdanelparmandil/pseuds/Nerdanelparmandil
Summary: Confronted with the prospect of becoming King of the Noldor, Nelyafinwë reflects on his role as a leader.Written for Fëanorian Week 2019, prompt: kingship.





	Father, King

Despite the ability of their eyes to see through this darkness, Nelyafinwë felt still blinded as he entered his father’s tent, lit by the light-blue lamps that bore his name. The first thing he recognised as soon as his eyes adjusted, was his father’s back, with his long hair covering most of it in a mantle so dark against the rich red of his tunic, that it seemed as if the light of the lamps was lured and swallowed by it.

 

“Father, have you sent for me?”

 

At the sound of his voice, Fëanáro turned and welcomed him with a genuine smile. It reminded Nelyo of how little Curufinwë had smiled when something had excited him. His father looked young, a light dancing in his pale eyes. Nelyafinwë shivered. Such a smile was incongruous with the terrifying creature that had regarded him with scorn when he had openly defied him.

They had spoken few words between them since, terse and brief. Nelyafinwë had felt the weight of his father’s stare for the entirety of their journey inland but he had kept his back straight and his gaze trained ahead, to the peaks under which their enemy hid. He had not cared much for what his brothers might have thought of him.

When the silence between them had become unbearable, he had drawn his father aside, hoping, with his words, to avoid another rift in the family.

 

_“We have come here for vengeance upon the Enemy and to reclaim what was ours. But I am not such a coward, that I fear to tell you openly, father, that leaving the majority of our people behind had been a terrible mistake, for I feel we will need their numbers before this war will be over. Yet, you are my king and father. I will follow you_. _”_

The words had seemed to please his father, though not in the way Nelyo had hoped.

_“I will not argue with you, son, for I know you will want to have the last word and you would be right. That is how I raised you, Nelyafinwë, to be a leader in your own right and not to be afraid, no matter who is in front of you. You assure me of your allegiance, but I never doubted you.”_

Fëanáro had gripped his shoulder almost painfully, stepping even closer and lowering his voice. _“I trust you like no one else, Nelyafinwë. Be my strength and reason, when all else will fail.”_

His eyes in those moments had been those of a man who gains clarity again and struggles to find the meaning of his insanity. It had broken Nelyo’s heart to see it and to see how his father had trembled with relief once he had enveloped his father’s hand with his own, the words spilling from his mouth in the most natural way. _“Of course.”_

 

The mad sparkle was there again now, and Nelyo wondered for how long his father could go on like this, dangerously leaning over the abyss of his grief and folly, before he finally plummeted once and for all. Maybe they were all at the edge of such a precipice, no matter how much Nelyafinwë tried to drag himself away from it.

“Come here, son. Come. I want to show you something,” in his hands Fëanáro was holding and partially covering something, waiting for his son to come closer.

Nelyafinwë took some slow steps, trying to keep his face as blank as possible, fighting the slight tremor in his hands.

When he was near enough, Fëanáro offered him the object, staring intently at him, eyes ablaze.

It was a simple circlet of burnished silver, decorated with an elegant pattern of constellations. Nelyo’s heart leaped in his throat. “Grandfather’s first crown.”

“Yes,” said Fëanáro, “The crown he took with him in exile. Look at it closely. Tell me what you see.”

Nelyo took the crown and inspected it. He could recognise and name all the constellations on the crown, their names surfacing from his memories of childhood stories about the days of Cuiviénen. “I have seen this already, father. What more do you want me to see?”

Fëanáro smiled, “Father never told you about that crown?”

Nelyo frowned and shook his head.

Fëanáro nodded and stepped closer. He put his hands over those of Nelyo, still holding the crown.

“It was made here, in Beleriand.”

“What?”

“When the Noldor chose Finwë as their king, this crown was made. It had to be at the same time worthy of a king but also simple and modest. They were always moving and at the time the Noldor had not discovered gems yet. When they arrived in Beleriand – I know you know this Nelyo but bear with me – they settled here for a time and the crown was finished. Your grandfather was crowned the day they sailed.”

“Who crowned him?”

“This I never knew. Father never said it and no book nor tale could tell us anything.”

“Not even master Rúmil?”

“Perhaps he knew, but he kept silent on the matter.”

“That is strange.”

“Is it?” Fëanáro shook his head, “No, it is not so strange. Remember, Finwë was just one chosen among his people. Nobility as we know it didn’t exist then. He was only one considered trustworthy and strong enough to journey to the land of the Valar and back again in Middle Earth. Someone they did not need for ruling.”

“But they made him king.”

“Yes, later, when their journey had almost come to an end. By then, his status among his people had changed.”

“That I could imagine. Did grandfather tell you this? The history I learned was not so precise.”

“The history we have learned was based on tales and songs.”

“Yet, there are many that remember those times.”

“Those are not happy memories for them. Have you ever wondered why so few of those who journeyed from Middle Earth to Aman ever wrote down their experience, or sung it, or simply told it to someone else? And when they did it, many details had been left out or changed in order to better suit a tune and our tastes.”

Nelyafinwë smiled and tilted his head, “A story may change to fit a tune, but once it is written down… It is the main reason why you had wanted to improve our writing system, is it not?”

“Partially, yes.”

“And this crown -”

“Is the symbol of his kingship. Not only of the Noldor in Aman. It’s the crown of the king of the Noldor, wherever they are. Not the crown hallowed by the Powers, but that given to the king by its people.”

Nelyo kept quiet for a moment. “I think I see what you mean, father,” he said.

“Do you?” Fëanáro tightened the hold on his son’s hands, “Do you truly see? Father took this crown with him in Formenos. He did not leave this to Nolofinwë, in Tirion.”

Nelyo bit his lips, “But he left Nolofinwë in Tirion to rule in his stead.”

His father’s eyes flashed with anger for a moment. “By keeping this crown, he kept the title of king. And one day both will be yours.”

Nelyo felt a hollowness take hold of his heart, “I really hope not, father!”

“We are at war, Nelyafinwë. I – _we_ – made an Oath. Death and Doom upon us if we fail! Shall I die, you will take my place and will lead our people. You have prepared for this all your life.”

“I’d prefer to die for and before you,” he answered quietly.

Fëanáro jerked, as if Nelyo’s words had hit him, “That, my son, is a thought I cannot bear.”

 

*

 

Nelyafinwë found himself in the tent that had been of his father, as he had been before the battle under the Stars – that was how their chroniclers had begun calling it. To Nelyo, it was simply the battle in which the Noldor had lost another king and he had lost his beloved father.

He was holding the crown of Finwë, inspecting it as if it might reveal all its secrets. He would have wanted to convince himself that the crown still remembered and kept the warmth of Fëanáro where he had touched it, but Nelyo knew it was a work of his grieving mind. His father’s absence hurt more that his fresh open wounds.

With a sigh, he placed the crown back in its wooden case and rested his hands on the carved lid, absently drumming his fingers. He would have to wear it, he supposed. The thought filled him with repulsion.

 

He heard the flap of the tent shift and soft steps on the carpet. He did not turn but his tapping stopped.

“We are waiting for you.”

Nelyo suppressed a sardonic smile. He couldn’t expect his brother to address him with titles or courtesy. He nodded and turned. Ambarussa was shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking everywhere but at him, young and skittish like a hunted rabbit. Nelyo felt the urge to draw him into his arms and soothe him, as if he still were the same small child that used to seek his comfort after a bad dream.

“What is the matter?” he asked instead.

Ambarussa stopped fidgeting and raised his eyebrows, looking at him. “Curufinwë is impatient”, he shrugged, before resuming his inspection of the furniture inside the tent.

Nelyafinwë knew very well that this was not the matter at all but kept his silence. “I suppose that is to be expected.” He slowly made his way to his brother. He grimaced when the wounds sent stabs of pain, slowing his pace.

“Let us go, then. Walk beside me, brother.”

 

*

 

He found his brothers seated around a table full of uncompleted maps, parchments and goblets of wine. Ambarussa had opened the flap of the tent almost impatiently and Nelyo had entered behind him, unannounced. The five brothers were silent and unmoving, save for Makalaurë, busy twirling his goblet with a vacant look on his face. Ambarussa sat down between his tween and Carnistir.

Finally, they all looked up at him and Nelyo felt all the weight and pain of the past events crush him. He fought with his body, trying to keep it from curving, as his shoulder threatened to sag as if pulled to the ground. His wounds began to throb in rhythm with his heart – its sound filled his ears and in an instant he was deaf, breathless and cold as if drowning.

He was their king.

The eldest of his whole house. Slowly, painfully so, he made his way towards the seat that had been of his father less than…how many days had passed? There was only an eternal night and he had not cared for the movement of the stars. His brothers watched him, their eyes sharp and unblinking. They were a pack of wolves, weary of strangers – and he felt like one. In his numbness he only thought _where did they find the wine?_

 

And Curufinwë offered him a goblet full of a dark red wine. “Something to drink - ” his voice wavered and stopped.

_Can you not call me brother anymore?_ Nelyo only tipped his head in acknowledgement and brought the goblet to his lips. The strong scent went immediately to his head. He drank deep, taking long gulps without breathing. When he finished, he set the goblet aside and feigned a relaxed pose.

He carefully observed his brothers, noticing the grief behind their pretended confidence and the tiredness in their stiff shoulders and nervous fingers. _How is it that none of you came to me for comfort? Did you cry alone in your tents, did you drown yourself in wine?_

Carnistir huffed and shifted in his seat. None of them had ever been unnerved by silence but he hated silent confrontations the most.

“So,” was all Nelyo said. It was enough. Tyelkormo let out a long breath as Makalaurë cleared his voice, coming to himself as if he had just woken up from a deep slumber.

“Maitimo,” he bit his lips, his brow furrowing for a brief moment, “how are your wounds?”

Nelyo raised his eyebrow at him and suppressed a smile.

“My leg is healing well. Sometimes it hurts, but nothing to worry about,” he shrugged.

“Good. Good,” he sighed and set down his goblet. It was still full. “Shall we begin, now?”

Nelyo hummed in agreement and gestured for him to continue.

“Curufinwë and I decided it would have been best to first call a private meeting, the seven of us, so that we can discuss the most urgent matters. That is,” he cleared his voice, suddenly rough, “the matter of our kingship.”

“That is a matter that can hardly be discussed just among us, Makalaurë. You do realise this, do you not?”

“Yes, Nelyo, we do. And we _will_ call a Council, however small it is, and then negotiate with our Moriquendi allies. What I want to say, brother is that -”

Curufinwë interrupted him; “It’s a family meeting, if you prefer.”

“I see. And you wanted to discuss something, so, please,” he gestured to all of them, “Speak. I will not interrupt you.”

The brothers exchanged some quick glances. Carnistir spoke then: “The main issue is – and I’m sure you have already thought about this: we don’t have any precedent. Grandfather was chosen, so we are told, by his people. Then his title as King had been hallowed by the Valar. When Grandfather came with us in exile, he left the ruling of the city to Nolofinwë. Father claimed the crown and so did Nolofinwë. While we suspect that the Valar would have hallowed him instead of our father, our laws simply say that the eldest of the descendants of the king will be the first in line of succession. But the laws and our rituals all include some form of legitimacy given by the Valar themselves. How will _we_ justify any choice we make? Who will crown our next king?”

“Will simple birth right not be enough? The Valar have all but abandoned us,” said Tyelkormo.

Carnistir nodded, “It should be. Our followers are loyal to our house and many of them are already in your contingent, Nelyo. As of now, I do not see why anyone should object to you being our king. That is, if you accept?”

Nelyo raised his eyebrows, “And do you accept me as your king and leader of our house, brothers?”

“Of course!” exclaimed Makalaurë without hesitation, “You have our unconditional support. No one is better suited than you.”

“You have already discussed this,” he noted.

“Yes. Should anyone object to anything when we will hold our Council, know that we will stand united, with you,” said Curufinwë, “We wanted to let you know.”

His brothers nodded at this and Nelyo smiled, if faintly. _How generous of you_.

“Thank you. Your support now means much to me.”

He kept quiet for a moment, then added: “Yet, your support alone won’t solve our issues. Though, I believe we should consider these matters in the Council. We cannot make any other decision without them.”

 

*

 

The members of the Council – a structure that they somehow managed to retain from the organisation of the court in Tirion – had been relieved when the Fëanarioni had proposed to crown Nelyafinwë in a matter of days. Their precarious situation in terms of settlement, provisions and, most importantly, military organisation, meant that the position of king could not remain vacant for long.

The crowning ceremony had been held as soon as the first nucleus of their new settlement had been ready. It had been a small and sombre affair. The oldest among them had crowned Finwë Nelyafinwë Son of Fëanor high king of the Noldor in Beleriand. The crowd had cheered, and Nelyafinwë had given a rousing speech, declaring himself ready to defend them, guide them and provide for them, reaffirming his intention to fight the enemy and avenge the brutal deaths of their previous kings. Lastly, he had invited his people to stay united and support each other.

The crowd had cheered again, more enthusiastic than before. Nelyafinwë had fought to suppress a grimace. His words had sounded false to his own ears. _How can we still believe in unity when we were ready to slit each other’s throat and abandoned more than half of our people on the other side of the sea?_ He had regarded the people assembled, their gaunt faces and proud containment. So few children were among them, so many widows and sundered families.

The days (how could they count them in that darkness, he did not know, the stars looked so different – and Nelyafinwë had never been good at the science of the stars) spent in tents facing the harsh climate of these regions were taking their tolls on them. They could not start building wooden houses or permanent settlements yet. The fear of another attack was ever present and the location seemed too isolated, difficult to defend, even if the mountains could be an advantage.

Nelyafinwë, however, intended to forge stronger ties with the Quendi of this land; establishing his kingdom on the shores of Mithirm could have been perceived as a slight by the Moriquendi who were settled there and, if he had understood the situation well, by their king that dwelled further south, in an enclosed land, protected by some sort of barrier.

A strange policy, claiming to be king of a population outside your borders; Nelyafinwë could already see how difficult it would be to form alliances with such a ruler.

That was in the future, though.

 

*

 

He was in his tent, the crown of Finwë in his hands glinting in the light of the lamps. The last conversation with Fëanáro had left him uneasy and doubtful. Too many things were left unsaid and Nelyafinwë was uncertain on how to interpret them. A king crowned by his people only at the end of a perilous journey. Chosen by virtue of his abilities. Someone they trusted and then had decided was worthy enough to pledge their life to.

That Finwë was an imposing figure in his mind. Too old, too legendary, too distant from the grandfather he had known. How could he compare to the old beloved king? How long could their loyalty to his house sustain them through a war against Moringotto?

It was only a matter of delaying the unavoidable, for Nelyafinwë knew, deep inside his heart, that they would be defeated, unless the Valar themselves intervened. Would the Valar abandon them completely to the dark foe? But they had, when they let Moringotto flee after killing their king, preferring to condemn his father for his folly than Moringotto for his crime. He could not count on their help.

Nelyafinwë understood, intellectually, the reason for their punishment. They had committed a horrible crime against their own kin in Alqualondë and Nelyafinwë had discovered for the first time how much blood a body contained and how easily it stained, hands and soul. Recalling that battle still made bile rise in his throat, almost suffocating him with the memories of the gut-wrenching cries, the stench, the white pavements soiled with dark, sticky blood… Yet, he felt justified in his resentment, anger and grief.

His father had promised them lands under starlit skies; fresh and singing waters running through the wide plains where their new kingdoms would rise. He would try his hardest, so that his people could realise that dream. That would be his goal as king of the Noldor.

As his father’s son, however, it was not enough.

_We have sworn, and not lightly_. War to Moringotto and vengeance for his father and grandfather were at the forefront of his mind.

_Yet, how to reconcile these duties?_ _There will be times, no doubt, when my duty as a king will need to come before my oath. Will I be strong enough to make the right choice when the time will come?_

He rose from the bed and put the crown back on a small table that worked as a scriptorium, a dinner table and a temporary closet. He massaged his temples, trying to keep a splitting headache at bay, but failing miserably.

He wished, not for the first time, that their mother had come with them.

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, my first piece of fanfiction in three years! I'm glad - in a way - that it's about Maedhros.  
> I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
